Marginalia
by nb41
Summary: Prompt fills from various sources. STID Spoilers possible.
1. Chapter 1

Prompt: Petty Officers

* * *

"I won that bottle fair and square."

"There is nothing fair about card games with Orions. Also, the cards are not square, they're-"

"Hand over that wine right now."

Gaila swung it lazily between two fingers and cocked her hip. "You could come and try and take it from me."

Nyota narrowed her eyes. Gaila knew it was too much to hope for; Nyota was well aware that Gaila attended hand-to-hand sparring sessions on a regular basis. Nyota wouldn't want to risk turning her quarters into an enormous mess just for one bottle of a rare vintage either (also, the bottle might break).

They engaged in their stand-off for a handful of seconds, then Nyota smiled, and Gaila knew she wasn't going to like whatever was coming.

"I'll tell Kirk you just _love_ working with Cihrik, and he should ask Spock to put you on Beta shift with her _right away_ so that you two can get to know one another better."

Gaila gaped. "You _wouldn't_." Nyota bobbed her eyebrows. "He won't believe you."

"Oh yes he will."

Gaila fumed. He _would_ believe Nyota, not because she could be convincing (though there was that) but because they were very close friends, and it was in his nature to trust her. Gaila could picture it now: Nyota would tell Jim that Gaila had a terrible crush on Cihrik-intellectual or physical, whatever was more likely to sway him-and was too embarrassed to let it be known. Jim would be confused, because it was _Cihrik_ (who was condescending, privileged, and had a superiority complex the size of a Romulan Warbird), and since when was Gaila embarrassed by anything at all? Nyota would go on, and eventually Jim would be forced to agree, and Nyota would suggest he discuss some minor shift changes with Spock. Naturally, Jim shouldn't let on to Gaila that he knew.

And then she'd be stuck on Beta shift-with _Cihrik_-until she could fabricate a convincing enough reason for Commander Spock to switch her again.

Gaila groaned and handed over the bottle. Nyota beamed, proud of her successful extortion. "You had this coming, you know-cheating me out of it and all."

"I've taught you too well."

"_Much_ too well." Nyota moved towards the door, gesturing in the direction of the observation deck. "Share a table with me? I hear they're making Cardassian Sunrises again."

Gaila straightened herself and followed, though she shook her head. "I'll come find you. I need to go devise a way to punish Jim for what you could hypothetically convince him of."

Nyota laughed. "Going to reprogram his shower again?"

"I was thinking maybe the door locking mechanism this time."

Nyota smiled and shut the door to her quarters behind them. "I'll be there reading once you're done." As she made her way down the hall, she said over her shoulder, "Maybe I'll even save a glass for you."

Gaila grit her teeth. She was going to reprogram his shower _and_ his door lock.


	2. Chapter 2

Prompt: Eulogy

* * *

They want her to write a eulogy for Chris.

She sits in an office of the tenth floor, one she's been given randomly since hers is a pile of rubble. It overlooks what's left of the _Vengeance_ and everything it has laid to waste, a front-row seat for the aftermath of an apocalypse. The sun is setting, and she's alone, which is a blessing because she's been hard-pressed to find more than five minutes to herself any time she's away. In this corner of the building it's quiet; everyone is exhausted and sleeping on conference tables or random hallway benches or office couches.

They want _her_ to write it.

She knows why: Kirk is still in a coma from whatever unsanctioned procedure McCoy pulled out of his ass and the Augment's blood to somehow revive him, and Spock is thus _de facto_ captain of a ship that's clinging to _Starfleet 6_ by its fingernails, making him one of the busiest people in all of Starfleet. Chris had other good acquaintances, of course, but she knew him best, even more so than his star cadets.

She suspects they would have asked her first anyways. Chris' kids only knew Spock in passing and Kirk not at all, and they would have drawn up the list and put her at the top.

She stares at the empty white display in front of her, trying to think of what to say that hasn't been said in a dozen private conversations since Daystrom. Or maybe that _is_ what she should say; there will be people there who are, at the moment, in comas or tearing down the _Vengeance_ or keeping crippled starships in space or saving the lives of the injured, and so won't have heard those exchanges.

She's never been morbid enough to wonder which of them it would be first, and now that she knows she thinks maybe she'd always suspected. The Universe just has it out for some people, regardless of whether or not they're good and kind and intelligent and honorable. (She _is_ morbid enough to observe that Kirk seems to have this same problem, and feels a flash of pity for Spock and how he's no doubt going to be putting up with a lot of bullshit as a result.)

This is a good line of thinking, though. It brings to mind the good times. They _very_ good ones, before the _Nerada_ and _Enterprise_; and the still good ones after, when he was desk-bound and recovering and working through it by complaining about whatever he felt like. ("The least they could have done was rescue him so I could pound on him a few times," he'd complained after one particularly rough round of physical therapy. She'd wanted a crack at Nero herself, and so couldn't blame Spock and Kirk for leaving him to his fate, and sometimes she's afraid she would have done far, far worse.)

Of course, 'Khan' (she has her doubts about that) _isn't_ being crushed into quark-gluon plasma inside a black hole (more's the pity), yet with Chris now one of hundreds of thousands dead or injured at his hands, she can't deny others their right to justice by taking it for herself. She'll be called to testify, no doubt, and will have to be patient in the mean time.

She turns on the desk lamp, because the sun's gone down and it's too dark to see anything but the display without it. The _Vengeance_ is an inky blot between the lights of the other buildings. Even darkness fails to obscure it, and she thinks there's a comparison to be made between that and everything Marcus did for all the wrong reasons.

She decides the best way to start is just begin talking. She can edit the rough draft as much as she likes, but first, she needs a rough draft to edit.

"Christopher Pike was my dear friend, and an honorable man, and our lives were immeasurably richer for knowing him. And despite how he was taken from us, he wouldn't want us to dwell on revenge, because he could be a selfish jerk when he wanted to."

Like that time with the Tellarites. Or that stupidity in the Oracnus Cloud. Or the situation they'd found themselves in just after she'd been made his First Officer. Or-

"Goddamned selfish _jackass_, actually," she mutters, and the microphone picks it up. She almost deletes it, thinking, _You're not calling him a jackass in front of his kids_, then doesn't. She can run it by Spock, and he'll suggest she remove the profanity in that patient manner he adopts when someone is being particularly illogical. (If he's still comatose, she'll read the first version to Kirk, because then he won't be able to comment.) In the mean time, she can leave in the full measure of her memories of him-the frustrating right alongside the fond-so she has somewhere to start.

It turns out to be a _very_ rough draft.

* * *

_For those not familiar with TOS, 'Number One' is the only name given for the woman shown as Christopher Pike's First Officer in 'The Cage' aka 'The Menagerie'._


	3. Chapter 3

Prompt: 'Kirk takes bubble baths'

This would work better as an art fill, but I'm no visual artist. I hope someone will come along and draw this super fun prompt, but in the mean time, here are some words.

* * *

"This place is ridiculous," Sulu commented, giving their suite a skeptical look.

McCoy sat down on a bed and began poking the mattress, his expression critical. "Who cares. Jim's covering the difference, the beds are comfortable, the windows are triple-paned, and we're not next to a shipping facility."

Jim called over his shoulder, "Your high standards are so hard to meet," from where he was touring the bathroom. It took up half the suite's size, and was decorated with a Terran aesthetic in mind: tile floors and walls in alternating white, black, and dark blue patterns; two free-standing, ceramic basins of marbled red and white stone in front of ornate mirrors framed in a dark, bronze-like material; a large, half-walled shower area with two water-resistant benches and a drencher; and an enormous, black, claw-foot bathtub with a small reclining bench inside it.

Sulu set his bag down on another bed. There was one for each them, and though they weren't as lavish as the bathroom, they promised to be a significant step up from the _Enterprise_. "Captain, are you sure about this? It's pretty expensive."

Jim had insisted as soon as he'd seen the suite floor plans. He ran a hand along the edge of the tub. "Positive."

* * *

The following day, McCoy was scheduled to be in seminars and sessions from just after breakfast until dinner. Sulu had made plans with Chekov and Darwin to check out some of the local sights after their morning panels were over; they didn't expect to be back until late that night.

Jim, like the rest of the Command group, would be getting out early, and he came back to an empty suite and a few hours all to himself. Perfection.

Aorox, like Earth, was classified as a majority-water planet, though its inhabitants had caught on to the need to be careful with the precious commodity very early in their history. They had the best water-reclamation technology in the Federation, and made use of it in a variety of ways, one of which was their ability to indulge water-loving tourists with things like ridiculous swimming and bathing facilities.

Jim had been waiting a long time to use this particular mix. Risans were masters of self-indulgence, and if the bath felt anywhere near as good as the oils smelled, he wasn't going to want to get out. It wasn't something one dropped in for a twenty-minute soak during a three-day shore leave in a tiny hotel room's minuscule tub. No, this was meant to be savored; ideally with someone else, but no one whom he'd want to share the space with and who'd really enjoy it was present. A pity, but not enough of one to dissuade him with a bathtub like this at his disposal.

He set a cold glass of cheerfully red local beer and some hors d'oeuvres on the side table while the tub filled, adding the amber-colored solution when the water had reached about half-way. The steam turned heavy and spicy, and just a little smoky-sweet, and he took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

He checked the clock one last time-a good three hours at least before he could expect McCoy back-slipped out of his robe, and stepped in.

The water was hot enough to take his breath away, but the shock was entirely worth it as soon as the initial flush had passed and he was up to his chin in bronze, gold, and white bubble foam. The oils made the bubbles rich and thick, almost lathery, ideal for rubbing over skin with a towel or a sponge if one was in the mood.

Jim wasn't; he just wanted to soak. He spent several minutes acclimating to the heat of the water, then dunked his head under for a second; the cooler air of the room on his face was a refreshing contrast to water's heat. He scrubbed a bit of the foam into his hair, settled against the bench, and sighed.

Bathtubs weren't really a possibility on a starship, and they were one of the few things Jim missed while in space. He'd missed them at the Academy as well, which only had showers in the dorms, and had taken to saving up money from odd jobs and favors to spend on a trip to a bathhouse. The ones with private baths were more expensive, but you got more time in them.

It had been worth every penny then and still was now. Privacy and space to think in were rare at the Academy and on a starship for anyone, and the captain most of all. He had to be available at a moment's notice for anything.

Except for right now. Right now, the _Enterprise_ was orbiting an ally's home planet while her crew went to a variety of sessions on interstellar politics and diplomacy, math, biology, medicine, and xenolinguistics, took a few hours to tour the surface, and in some cases, soak in bathtubs.

He'd just finished the last hors d'oeuvre when he heard the door to the suite open. Someone moved around in the room, then McCoy called out, "Jim?"

Trust McCoy to sneak out of his panels early. It had been a nice hour, at least. "In here."

McCoy stopped at the bathroom entrance and stared. Jim was certain he'd never seen him so thunderstruck. "Are you taking a _bubble_ bath?" McCoy stepped in, peering like he thought the situation could change at any second, and he had to record it in his mind now or lose the opportunity.

Jim felt too good to be put-out by the accusation in McCoy's voice. "I didn't say you could come in here," he said, and flung a handful of bubbles at McCoy, who took a half-step back.

"You really are." He sniffed. "What is that, sandalwood?"

"It's a Risan mix. Traded a vendor for some help with his billing database."

"You worked through our last shore leave?"

Jim shrugged. "I bartered for something nice I could put to good use later. Which is now." He reached behind himself and took up his beer. "Aren't you always telling me hot water's good for abused muscles and joints? You should try it some time."

McCoy grunted. "I was thinking, you know, a jacuzzi."

"This smells and feels about one hundred times better than a jacuzzi, and is," he gave McCoy a dry look over the rim of the glass, "usually a lot more private."

"Maybe you shouldn't have shared the room with us, then."

Jim made a low sound; he didn't particularly like having a hotel room to himself. Just the bathtub. "We can go to that bar Scotty suggested after I finish my bath."

"And how long is that going to take?"

"As long as it takes me to finish this," he said, raising the glass. "Which might go faster if you're not in here harassing me."

McCoy gave the bubbles one last look-Jim was sure this time it was more speculative—and went back into the bedroom.

Jim nursed his beer and wondered what sort of mix he might be able to tempt Bones into trying. Something subtle, certainly; anything that smelled strong would put him off. Low foam, too, and plain colors. Dramatic wouldn't be his style. Certainly nothing flashy like glitter. (He remembered a mix Gaila had given him as congratulations for passing a class most cadets failed the first time through; they'd been picking glitter off of one another for days after that.)

He would have to give it some thought during _tomorrow_'s bath.


End file.
